


Can I Go Where You Go?

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: "thought i lost you" yaaaaaas, F/M, Forced to confess feelings, Forehead Kisses, Jealousy, Omg they were soulmates, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Soulmates, as slow of a burn as i've ever done i guess, canonverse, grounder!bellamy, ugly trigedasleng language, we're all shaking in our t100 au booties!, yeah truly some never done before stuff!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23876641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Octavia catches her eye on Echo and ducks her head, long braided hair a curtain to hide her smirk. “She was promised to him before.”“To Bellamy?” Clarke wonders, which earns her a raise of her eyebrows. She throws another small twig into the campfire, making it sizzle. “For what?”“An union,” she explains with a lazy shrug of her shoulders. “Before we took you in, of course.”“Before,” she echoes, as a question. It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, but she needs to know anyway. Maybe this is why he resents her so much, that in saving her people, he lost the girl he loved.“Lexa is good at separating duty from personal feelings. She was expecting loyalties to shift.”“I don’t let my personal feelings cloud my judgement.”“Not you,” Octavia laughs, and it seems like it’s at her, not with. “Have you met my brother?”Clarke startles, mouth twisting sourly. Now she’s not making any sense. “He barely knows me.”“You saved my life, Clarke. That’s all he needs to know.”↬ Clarke comes—or rather crashes—down from the Sky, locks eyes with a Grounder King, finds it’s hard to make friends on earth and then suddenly and inexplicably bleeds whenever he bleeds.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 159
Kudos: 476
Collections: Bellarke Bingo





	1. Can't Find Paradise On The Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captainchokemedaddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainchokemedaddy/gifts).



> this is for [redacted] whose ao3 username was NOT under any circumstances coined by me. i have been working on this for the past three months, all 90 days spent by them reminding me i never do anything for them even though i write fic for basic bitches. basic bitches, [redacted] thinks you're a basic bitch. struggled a bit with this verse, and i have rewritten the first scene/prologue about twenty times over before giving up, just bear through it and it'll be worth it in the end because things really get good — or bad ;) — in the next chapter. you can hover over the trig to see the translation. now put on some folk music which is my mood for grounder fic always and kick back
> 
> tropes used for bellarke bingo: forced to confess feelings + forehead kissing + "thought i lost you" + protective clarke + jealous bellamy 
> 
> title of this fic is lover by taylor swift, and this chapter is from oh wonder's all we do.

⭒

Clarke is drawing a dream she’ll never get to see come true, and then she’s not. She’s locked into a solitary cell for over a year, and then she’s not. One moment she’s tumbling through space at an alarming speed, and then she’s not. 

There’s silence, the only sound the pounding of her blood in her ears. Darkness, her vision blurry as she tries to make out her surroundings. Somebody pulls her along, outside of the Dropship and then there’s wind in her hair, cold rain on her skin, her boots digging into the ground — earth. Clarke is on the ground.

She doesn’t get to revel in it for long, because her brain kickstarts, and the world starts coming back into focus. There’s agonizing screams, clouds of grey smoke, and blood. Lots and lots of blood. 

Maybe not even a few hours later, and she’s in the middle of some cave, surrounded by a congerate of fur and leather-wearing people, faces only lit by the small fire in their midst as they argue in some language she doesn’t recognize. Hasn’t ever read about in her textbooks, hasn't seen it in any of the Ark’s movies. 

“,” a bald guy wearing a brown robe spits, obviously upset. An intricate web of tattoos is wrapped around his skull, and he's motioning around wildly.

Motioning his hands at Clarke, desperate to understand what they’re saying, some big guy’s greasy paw wrapped around her bicep to keep her in place. At the girl with black warpaint smudged around her distanced eyes, stiff shoulders covered with a red cloak and what seems to be the weight of the world. At the matted, curly haired guy on the girl’s other side, water dripping from his clothes onto the ground by his feet, who’s jaw is ticking dangerously as if holding himself back.

The same guy she just watched kill someone outside the cave without blinking twice, just for daring to defy him. Bile rises up in her throat at the fresh memory of his knife slashing some guy’s throat like the rain pounding down on them, swift and easy, the dark look in his eyes as he wiped his blood stained hands on the front of his shirt. Clarke doesn’t need to know what they’re saying to understand these people are not their friends. 

The bald guy scoffs, narrowing his eyes at Clarke before turning back to the girl, who surely calls the shots around here, from the way everyone looks like they’re trying to convince her. Of what, Clarke’s not sure. “!”

“Please, we mean no harm,” Clarke tries, fear of her own life the last thing on her mind. She can’t stop trying. If they’re deciding on their faith, her people’s faith, she wants to have a say. She needs to. The burly guy meanly tightens his grip on her arm, dull sting of pain spreading up her spine, warningly hissing something to her under his breath. She’s barely able to repress a wince as she barrels on, not sure how much longer she can push this, “Just let my people go and I’ll do whatever you want.”

The girl’s — Heda’s — green eyes fall on hers, her expression blank and the intensity of her stare makes Clarke’s skin prickle uncomfortably. Her long fingers tightly wrap around the hilt of the sword lodged at her hip, as if she’s made up her mind. The guy, the one with the curls, who has the same black warpaint smudged on his forehead, doesn’t even glance over at Clarke before he folds his fingers around the girl’s wrist in what must be a painful grip. Through gritted teeth, he pleads, “.”

_Okteivia_. She’s heard that before. They’re talking about the girl, she realizes. 

Clarke didn’t know what happened during their descent, what caused their ship to be ripped open from the inside out, but she did what anyone else would’ve done. She got to work. 

She helped steady broken legs and arms, bones piercing through skin. Managed to calm down shaking teenagers, haphazardly covered up their burns, scrapes and cuts. Tried hand compressions on a small boy not older than twelve, before regrettably noticing the damage to his neck. Rallied up the less severely injured kids, made them help the ones who couldn’t walk, get them away from the burning Dropship. She was in the middle of stitching up some lanky kid with goggles hanging from his neck when she first heard the low grunts. 

Without even sparing him a single look, she curtly instructed Wells — stuck at her side for some reason unbeknownst to her, when she couldn't have made it more clear that was the last place she wanted him to be — how to finish up the stitches, figuring it didn’t need to be pretty, it just needed to hold. 

There she found her, stuck under heavy layers of debris from the ship, covered in grime and blood, but still angry, yelling at her in the same strange language Clarke had never heard anyone else speak. 

“!” The girl warned, dark hazel eyes fierce and threatening, wearing clothes that were definitely _not_ from the Ark’s redistribution centre. There wasn’t an ounce of fear on her face, not in the way a girl of her age would be expected to feel under the circumstances she was in. Stuck, in unbearable pain, surrounded by strange people. “!”

Shock was Clarke’s first, most overbearing reaction. Not because this girl was waving around her arms as if her leg wasn’t being crushed, as if she would still beat Clarke in a fistfight if it came down to it. Because… In all her dreams about earth, Clarke never thought there would be survivors. She always believed that if they ever came down, they would be alone. That they would need to rebuild the world. She’d seen flashes before, of a life on earth that wasn’t her own, but she figured it was just her imagination running wild. A way to cope with the isolation, the loneliness, the realisation she would never get to witness it.

Her next was fear, gripping at her throat. A big, broad guy with the same matching tattoos wrapping around his arms and neck rushed to the girl's side, pointing his sword into Clarke’s direction threateningly as he used his other hand to comb the girl’s long brown hair away from her face, despair obvious in his voice, “.”

She softened in his hold with a quiet cry, as if everything finally caught up to her. The cold of the rain seeping into her bones, the pain of her crushed leg, the shock of the crash of the ship. He muttered something to her, pressing a kiss to her slick forehead. The man spared Clarke another look, jostling the sword her way again in lieu of a warning, before he used his other arm to try and pull the debris off her. 

“I wouldn’t move that if I were you,” Clarke stammered out, pushing her wet hair away from her face in the same way she set aside the nameless dread surging through her. She was just an intern, but she remembers that accident at Mecha Station not too long ago. Someone’s foot got crushed in one of the machines, and when they freed him he immediately went into a seizure. _Crush syndrome_ , her mom called it. Toxins from the injury releasing all at once, flooding the patient’s system. “If we don’t cut off the blood supply first, she’ll go into shock.”

He looked utterly confused as he froze to throw her another long scrutinizing look, and it had her curse under her breath. Of course he wouldn’t know what she meant. Clarke hoped that even if they didn’t speak the same language, somehow what she meant to convey was universal, motioning at the girl. “She’ll die.”

The man reluctantly rose back to his full height, glancing warily between the girl and her. She had looked even less amused than before. 

“Linkon,” the girl seethed, bloody fingernails digging into his hand, nudging her head over to Clarke violently. “!”

“,” he told the girl, calming, easily unwrapping her fingers from his to intertwine their fingers instead. “.“ The tension from the girl’s shoulders drained at the look on his face, and the guy shifted to glance over at Clarke with a small nod next. Hesitation lingered on his face for a moment longer, but then he lowered his sword. 

Clarke rushed over, tourniquetting her leg to constrict the blood flow before helping the guy get the debris off her. Some guy with long floppy brown hair was eager to fetch her the medic bag and she stuck an iv in her, filling her up with a heavy bolus of saline, praying it would be enough. 

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that’s why they dragged her over to this cave, and are currently discussing the most painful way for her to die. It doesn’t matter. She just needs to know that it’ll stop here. That they’ll punish her, not them. They didn’t chose this, none of them did.

“Please, they’re just kids,” Clarke pleads, desperate, trying to break free from the stocky man’s grip again. It earns her a backhanded slap across the face, her vision blackening for a moment as she slumps back against his body. Her mouth tastes like metal. 

“Clarke,” Wells cries out from behind her, but the floppy haired guy — Finn, she thinks — holds him back. She pays them no mind. This isn’t about her.

“Heda—” The bald guy snaps, eyes blazing with indignation. “!”

“,” the other guy barks back angrily, firelight flickering across his features as if he’s the one that's burning. Clarke’s forehead creases as she takes in his sharp jawline, the slight stubble covering it, the slope of his nose, his dark heavy eyes. He looks so familiar. 

“They belong with no one,” the girl, woman, speaks as if addressing a room of hundreds of people although there can’t be more than twenty-five crammed into the small cave. She quirks an eyebrow at the man beside her, ripping her wrist lose from his grip with a carefully calculated move. She looks like the cat that got the canary, although she doesn’t linger in it. “Is that not so, Bellamy?”

Clarke startles, heart pounding loudly in her ears. They _do_ speak English. This just means they never wanted her to be part of the conversation.

The curly haired man — Bellamy — grits his teeth together, fingers flexing and then relaxing at his side. Then he counters, “They belong with me now, Heda.”

Her gut twists with dread. He shouldn’t be speaking for her, for them. It’ll make them look weak. She doesn’t want someone like _him_ to speak for them. “With all due respect, we don’t belong with anyone,” Clarke adds, swallowing hard as all attention turns on her. They don't want her to speak, but she needs them to hear her.

For what feels like the first time tonight, Bellamy looks directly at her, and if looks could kill, she’d be frozen and floating through space by now. Or, six feet under. That’s finally a possibility now. She’s still getting used to it. 

Heda looks impressed. “You are their leader?”

“No,” she answers, risking a glance at Finn and Wells over her shoulder. She’s taken enough shit on the Ark for being bossy and entitled because her mother’s on the Council. Besides, she’s just a girl. Two more weeks, and she would’ve been floated for being eighteen and harboring someone else’s secret. She’s not even a girl, she’s a ghost.

She cocks her head, calm and curious. There's a low, considering hum from the back of her throat, and then she wonders, “But they listen to you.”

Clarke’s brows furrow together, shaking her head lightly. The answer seems obvious to her. “Because no one else is willing to speak up.”

Heda purses her lips. “Your name?”

Her stomach churns sickly, not sure where this is going. Any of this. There’s something big at play here, more than one layer to his conversation that she’s completely unaware of. It makes her feel uneasy, to not have all the facts on her side. She’s hardly in a position to make demands, so she relents, quietly, “Clarke.”

“You are not of any clan, correct, Clarke of the Sky People?”

Everything she asks feels like a trap and all Clarke can do is walk into it with both eyes open. Nevermind she doesn’t know what clans she’s talking about, but they just landed here. Heda has to realize this, considering their ship could not have made a more dramatic entrance. Clarke’s eyes flick over to Bellamy considering he was so willing to speak for them before, but he’s decidedly glaring at the toes of his boots. She licks her dry lips, then gives the truth, “Yes.”

Her eyes narrow into tiny sliths, fingers folding back around her sword as if second nature. “Then you were trespassing on Trikru land. The punishment for that is death.”

Terror stabs at her heart painfully. It is starting to dawn on Clarke that she’s made a mistake. Bellamy, for an unknown reason, was offering her people the chance to be part of their clan. And whatever that means, whatever the implications, it seems to hold a lot of weight to these people. Clarke swallows, tight, gritting her teeth briefly to try and control the plethora of emotions and adrenaline swirling through her body before she forces her voice to be even, “We didn’t choose to land here. Our people from the sky, our leaders, they sent us down without our permission.”

Sent them down here to die. 

“It is irrelevant. The rules of the alliance are clear,” she growls, voice getting louder with each word, like they’re fighting a war and she’s addressing her soldiers. A war Clarke’s people never asked to be part of. How can she obey the rules of an alliance she wasn't even aware existed? “We cannot make any exceptions. If we do not set an example, it is only a matter of time before another territory war breaks out.”

“,” Bellamy grumbles, nostrils flaring and whole posture stiff, and Clarke physically can’t look away from him. She can’t shake this eerie, unsettling feeling lodging deep in her bones. She knows him from somewhere. 

Heda, or Lexa, turns on her heels towards him, glaring at him. She doesn’t seem to agree with whatever he’s saying. “—”

Bellamy cuts her off sharply, much more composed than before, “.”

The air in the cave grows thick with tension and Lexa looks extremely pissed. There’s a clench in her jaw, her chest heaving up and down heavily, but then there’s another brief pause as she rakes his face and her entire posture deflates. She juts her chin at the guy holding Clarke in his death grip, and he steps away from her. The bald guy is soon making sounds of protest, but Lexa breaks him off by simply holding up her hand. She tilts her head lightly, holding Clarke’s gaze. “Bellamy is willing to make you part of his clan. A union between Trikru and Skaikru. Is that something you would be willing to accept?”

Clarke curls her fingers into her palms, the sharp bite of her nails grounding her. Wells is tugging on her sleeve, desperate for her to look at him, Finn is at her other side, rambling under his breath. Neither of them seems to think it’s a good idea, and maybe she should listen to them. Yet she takes one more hard look at this guy, this Bellamy, who is willing to save them from death when he was just as willing to take someone’s life not too long ago, and although she doesn’t know what horrors they’ll face in return for the mercy he is showing them, the familiarity of his features makes her say, “Yes.”

Lexa nods, curt and solemn. “I see.” Blinking slowly, she shifts her head towards Bellamy, whose heavy gaze Clarke can still feel on her. There's a challenge in her steady voice, “And you are willing to vouch for all eighty-seven of the surviving Sky People, Bellamy kom Trikru?”  
  


A tense moment of silence, and then, out of the corner of her eye, she can see him tip up his jaw in agreement. “They’ll be my responsibility, Heda.”

Her mouth forms a tight line. “Then Titus shall commence the bonding ritual.”

Everything happens fast. Clarke is shoved towards the fire by the man who was holding her back earlier, ignoring Wells’ protests once again. The bald guy — Titus — tosses a small knife Bellamy’s way before he uses another to cut into her palm at the same time as he does into his. It’s superficial, just enough to bleed, but it burns more than it should. Titus says a few short, perfunctionery phrases she yet again doesn’t understand, to which Bellamy agrees, and they require her to do the same before pressing their palms together. It’s here their gazes meet up close for the first time, her blue on his brown eyes, like the sky meets the earth. 

“We will inform the other clans before next nightfall,” Lexa promises Bellamy with a brief hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention away from her. Their hands drop, and Clarke’s palm tingles at her side, their blood dripping down her wrist. It’s hard to breathe as her heartbeat jumps into overdrive, disbelief settling in the pit of her stomach. Their leader turns to her, giving her a simple nod. “.”

And Clarke has not a single clue what it means, nor what they have managed to get themselves into. None of that seems to matter right now, not when he most confusing thing of all is that she just realized where she recognizes Bellamy from. 

Her dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jaws theme increasing at an alarming speed* anyway if you read all that serve a comment or perish this is free labor after all🥰


	2. You're Like A Mirror, Reflecting Me (You've Been Lonely Too Long)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He ignores her, running a hand over his face as he rests the other on his hip, pensive look taking over his face. It’s a demand and a plea at the same time, “You can’t tell anyone.” 
> 
> “Why not?” She hears herself ask, still raking his face for answers. She can tell he’s distracted, not even still paying attention to the conversation, or her, but her voice makes his head snap up, his expression harden. 
> 
> “Because having a soulmate makes you weak,” he barks back matter-of-factly, and the use of the word soulmate makes her reel back. That’s absurd. Soulmates — that’s something they only talk about in the old movies from before the apocalypse. It’s not real, and even just considering they are is ridiculous. 
> 
> “We’re not soulmates,” Clarke argues immediately and insistently, even though he’s already turning away towards the nearest exit.
> 
> He seems to change his mind as he turns back around, scoffing, and then he’s suddenly in her space. His big hand slides down her ribs, the sting grounding her. She has to crane her neck to look him in the eye, the rest of her frozen in place. His voice is rough, breath hot as it fans over her face, meanly biting, “I wish it were different too, princess.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's ramp up that sexual tension, bitches!

***

_ p.i:  _ _ you're like a mirror, reflecting me (you've been lonely too long) _

***

For at least a quarter of the day, hot sun high in the sky and beating down on their red faces, they’re led through the woods and brought to a small settlement in the middle of a clearing. Some of them are crowded together into spare cabins and others are separated into temporary tents while more permanent housing is being constructed to account for all eighty-seven of them. 

A young boy named Artigas shows them the way around the village; the canteen with the outside sitting area good for two meals a day, the river for washing clothes, the hot spring for washing yourself, the market for trading, the school huts for learning. He shows them the healing cottage, the latrines, the farm, the armory, the tavern. Excitedly tells them there will be a feast that night, to celebrate the union.    
  


Clarke didn’t think there was much to celebrate, feeling on edge, skin jittery with it. Not until she got some answers. Even then it’d be debatable.

Most of the kids take to it easily, settling into their new surroundings and finding joy in meeting people that didn’t grow up in space. Clarke is hyper aware of the unknown dangers lurking around, especially in the innocent ignorance that comes with their excitement. She still isn’t sure why Bellamy decided to take them in, why he didn’t just let them die. 

She doesn’t think about the dreams. The flashes of the woods, so real she could almost smell it, the soil and the trees; could feel the warmth of the hot sun blazing down on his bare freckled shoulders, slick with sweat; could hear the quiet burble of water, trying to wash off the blood and dirt caked under his fingernails, crouched down by the river. 

Clarke’s convinced herself she’s crazy, that she’s interpreting it all wrong, that it’s some trauma-induced partial psychosis, or an undiagnosed head injury playing tricks on her. Her brain must be overstimulated. So much has happened in so little time, she must be remembering them incorrectly, filling in the blanks with her imagination. 

She doesn’t think about the dreams, but there’s an inexplicable draw to him she can’t resist. He is the only one who can provide her with some answers. She wants to— _ needs _ —to know why. Why he risked so much to take them in, stood up to his own people to do so. She’s not stupid. Not everybody is happy with his decision to offer them refuge and most of his people don’t like the fact they’re invading their space. Clarke hears the whispers, feels their stares. She gets it, she does. They’re outsiders, strangers who fell from the sky. It might take them a while to adjust to this new intrusion.

It’s a draw she  _ can’t _ resist, and although she stubbornly tries to anyway, even the best amongst them fail sometimes. It’s why she finds herself weaving her way through the throng of dancing bodies and the heavy scent of smoked meat and freshly baked bread, falling down beside him on a backless wooden bench. It’s off to the side by a patch of trees, away from the rambunctious epicentre of the feast, heavy drum beat sounding more like a warcry than a jubilant song of celebration. Maybe to these people, they’re the same things. 

He’s sipping from a handmade metal cup leisurely, not bothering to take his eyes off the drinking game he’s watching to even just simply acknowledge her existence. There’s an absentminded smile on his face, one of his hands resting in the crook of his opposite elbow. She watches him, and he must realize because it fades just as quick as it appeared, contorting back into a blank, stoic slate of indifference. 

“Bellamy,” Clarke says in greeting as she follows his line of sight, realizing a few of the younger grounders have roped Harper and Monroe into playing along with their game. Metal cups lined up, the goal to aim an acorn into one of them. Apparently it’s funny, because her friends are all laughter, cheeky smiles and flushed faces. It’s a nice change of pace from all the village elders with narrowed eyes and low curses under their breath, but that thought just reminds her of how unwelcome they truly are, and her face twists.

She’s tried all day to accidentally find him somewhere in the crowds, talk to him, find out what the hell is going on, what it all means. Clarke convinced herself if she didn’t plan running into him, she wasn’t truly giving in to the most aggravating of her newfound urges. It annoys her, how he won’t even look at her now. 

She knows she should be grateful he saved them, but she can’t even try and fake it when he acts like this. Like she isn’t even worth the time of the day; avoiding her, ignoring her, averting his eyes from her. All of this, the feast, the dancing and drinking, the forced joy about something they all know isn’t actually a happy occasion for either party — it’s just posturing. He’s hiding something, and she needs to know what.

Bellamy seems to notice the sour look on her face, eyebrows jumping slightly as if amused. “Ah, what’s wrong?” His voice is deep, rough, and he’s obviously making fun of her. At least he’s talking to her. “Aren’t you glad we’re _ united _ ?”

Her head snaps to look at him, but the most she gets is an eyeful of his side-profile, the half-smirk, tic in his jaw, determined gaze everywhere but on her, hint of bitter resentment laced with his tone, and suddenly she’s had enough of this. Clarke refuses to eat their food until she’s sure it’s not poisoned, but she’s had a few sips of the fruity wine they’re serving to everyone to keep up appearances, it’s taste too sweet to repel, and it seems to have loosened up her tongue. “We didn’t ask for this, you know.”

He lets out a huff of mirthless laughter, finally sparing her a murderous glance. Finally something  _ real _ . “I’m sorry. You prefer death?”

Clarke grits her teeth together, fingers digging into the edge of the bench. She doesn’t want to pick a fight, but he’s making it hard not to do it. “Why save us?” 

His nostrils flare, grip around his cup tightening, but he doesn’t say anything. Safe from the distant cacophony of boisterous laughter over the beat of the drums and the gentle chirping of what she’s been told are insects, it’s dead silent between them. 

Her brows furrow together, and she adjusts on the bench, inching closer as if getting into his space will somehow force him to talk. Her pulse flutters, being this combative when she’s seen him kill people over less, but somehow she pushes through it, “What do you want from us? Is this some sort of punishment?”

His head shifts, and his dark eyes meet hers. She’s taken aback by their intensity momentarily, but doesn’t let it show. In the dim light of the few lit torches around the area surrounding them, she realizes for the first time how young he is, brown skin smooth and unwrinkled, bare of any warpaint. There’s a clench in his jaw and then he growls, firmly, “You don’t know me.”

Her mind flashes back to crimson red spilling over the blade of his knife, the defenseless man sinking down on his knees into the soil, fingers grasping at his neck helplessly. The smell of metal blending with fresh earth. It’s hard to keep the judgement, the disgust out of her voice, “I’ve seen what you’ve done.”

A disdained sound grumbles deep in his chest as he takes a swig of his drink before he turns back to the feast as if he’s done with this conversation. Done with her. “Who we are and who we have to be to survive are two very different things.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, except, “You killed that man.” She watches him tense out of the corner of her eye and her mouth suddenly feels dry so she licks her lips, and they still taste like grapes. “He wasn’t a threat.”

“Look at that,” Bellamy spits, seeped in bitterness, slamming down the rest of his cup before tossing it aside somewhere onto the grass angrily. He holds her gaze with his blazing eyes, and she doesn’t understand why he hates her so much. It’s barely been a day since he saved her life. He’s confusing. “Sky Princess has got it all figured out within her first five minutes on the ground.” 

She blinks at him, swallowing tightly before she opens her mouth, struggling for an appropriate and just as scathing response. He beats her to it, his shoulders a straight line, “He was Azgeda. A spy. If I hadn’t, you’d all be dead by now.”

Clarke startles, not sure what to say to that and an uncomfortable silence lingers between them for a beat. She didn’t  _ have _ all the information. He might have been right about this, but that doesn’t make him right about everything. She reaches up, brushes a strand of hair back from her eyes. Her hand reluctantly hovers in the air for a moment on it’s way down before she puts it down on his forearm, teeth sinking down into her bottom lip briefly. “Let us help. Let us earn our keep. My mom was a doctor, I know a lot of things that could help your healers.”

He carefully picks her hand off his arm, putting it back in her own lap deliberately slow in a calculated way, his torso edging closer to hers as he looks her dead in the eye. He smells like sunshine, and boy, and  _ earth _ , and she wishes she could say she wasn’t intimidated by having him so close, so overwhelming. Although she thinks she does a good job at pretending she’s not affected, neither by his proximity or him. The corner of his mouth turns up in a smug way that tells her she isn’t, as he easily counters, “Something tells me you’re not used to being told no.”

Anger pulses through her veins, red hot, not liking what he’s insinuating. At least if they’re not walking around camp being useless, he’ll have a reason to keep them around. They could make themselves useful, indispensable even. Maybe then they can work on trust. “Stop being such a stubborn ass. We could be of value.”

He studies her a moment longer, seems satisfied by her lack of outward reaction to him evading her personal space, then sits back up straight. “Why do you think we need you to be?”

He’s feigning ignorance, he has to be. She tilts her head lightly, shooting him an incredulous look. “You risked a lot, making us part of your clan. We don’t want to owe your people anything.” She doesn’t want to owe _ him _ anything, and, briefly, her eyes linger on the white scrap of fabric tied around his hand, her own palm burning with the memory of their bonding. “And the way you live, so primitive — it could be improved.”

The quality of their housing was appalling to the point Clarke was surprised some of them were still standing. She’d seen children and elderly work, observed a lack of basic hygiene in their daily practices, had noticed most of his people either couldn’t or refused to speak English. Although, since she had witnessed more than three separate fights take place over the course of a few hours, it seems they might prefer their fists opposed to verbalizing their disagreements anyway. As far as she could tell there were no real rules, let alone any basic laws. Not to even start about the barbaric state of their medical practices. Primitive didn’t even start to cut it.

“Saving my sister will only grant you so much leniency, Sky Princess,” Bellamy bites heatedly, brows snapping together and mouth setting into a hard line. He should scare her like this, for all he’s an intimidating sight, but somehow he doesn’t.

She tilts her head slightly back, blinking a few times before she echoes the foreign word. “Sister?”

“Octavia?” Bellamy supplies, strange look on his face as if he’s confused by how she doesn’t already know this.

“Oh,” she says, dumbly. It makes complete sense. Now she thinks about it, they are similar in many ways that at first glance could be equivocal. The sharp cheekbones, the darkened gazes, the short tempers. “Sorry, “ she mutters absently, running a hand roughly through her hair while her mind still reels, pieces falling into place. “Siblings don’t exist in space.” He simply stares at her, and she knows it won’t make sense without any context, and he’s not getting any unless she provides it, so she reluctantly elaborates. “The little resources we had had to be rationed, and every household was only allowed to produce one child. If you didn’t obey, they would float you.”

  
“Float,” he repeats and it sounds funny coming from him, brown eyes raking her face as his brows start to furrow together. She has half a distant mind to note he looks cute like that, in a confused boyish way, before she pushes the thought away.

Clarke purses her lips, suddenly feeling uneasy at having to admit to things that wouldn’t make sense unless you were a part of it. It’s complicated. The rules of the Ark were harsh, but necessary to guarantee their survival. At least that’s what her parents always told her, what the Council told everybody. “Kill.”

For some reason, he breaks out into a smirk, shaking his head lightly. “And you call us savages.” He chuckles more to himself than her. “What was it you said? Primitive?”

She takes a deep breath, rubbing her temples with two of her fingers on each side shortly. This is getting nowhere, and she shouldn’t have expected otherwise. Her hands drop back into her lap, and she feels someone’s eyes on her from the crowd. She doesn’t have to look to know who it is, her stomach churning at the thought. 

Bellamy nudges his jaw at the same pair of eyes, because of course he noticed, interest piqued. “What’s up with you and that boy?”

Clarke eyes flick over to Wells briefly. He’s obviously concerned for her, sitting beside a guy who they’d both watched slit someone’s throat without any real cause less than a day ago. In his eyes, Bellamy is the enemy. And maybe he is, but so is Wells, and there’s only one of the two she can bear to look at right now. So she tries out a lie she’s told herself many times before, “I hardly know him.”

“Right,” Bellamy snorts dryly, obviously seeing right through her. He leans back on the heels of his hands, wrapping them around the back of the bench. In doing so, their shoulders brush briefly and Clarke has to physically repress a flinch. She blames it on the year in solitary, how unfamiliar she is with casual human contact. Touch without purpose, or by accident. He’s warm, and his body heat radiates off him. 

He doesn’t really ask for an explanation, but she needs to give it anyway. She hates how people think she is just some cold hearted bitch who suddenly cut off her life-long best friend without any reason. A sociopath is far from the worst thing she’s heard people whisper about her. It shouldn't matter. She doesn’t even like Bellamy, so his opinion shouldn’t hold any weight to her. But maybe that’s why. He doesn’t like her either, so he won’t lie. “He’s the reason my dad got floated.”

“You guys float a lot of people?” He quirks an eyebrow at her, eyes gleaming with amusement. She wasn’t wrong about her initial assumption of how a conversation like this would go, but it’s also futile. All of this is just a joke to him.

“Nevermind,” she mutters, making a move to get up. This is useless. She shouldn’t have bothered to try any of this to start with. She’ll find another way to find out what he has planned for them, what he is gaining from taking them in besides the flimsy excuse that she saved his kin, what unforsaken ulterior motive he’s trying to hide from her. It’s obvious he won’t tell her either way.

His fingers curl around her wrist before she can walk away, and he stares up at her. His face unreadable but his eyes resolute. “Sit down.”

Her pulse tauntingly throbs in her palm, right under the cut as she stares right back. Clarke pulls her arm free from his grip but she doesn’t walk away. She constantly feels like she’s toeing some invisible line with him, whole body on high alert. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away, everything else fading into nothing. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“I know you don’t,” Bellamy allows, an insincere sweet tone to his voice, nudging at the unoccupied spot on the bench beside him with a tilt of his head. 

Clarke clamps her teeth together, worrying her jaw for a moment as she considers her options. She could disappear back into the crowd, have Wells inevitably corner her somewhere and try to apologize for the umpteenth time. Or maybe Finn will get to her first, and he could try to make useless small-talk with her again. She finds she doesn’t really want to talk to any of them. She  _ needs  _ to talk to Bellamy, and if she has to give him a little piece of herself to get something in return, she will. 

So, Clarke relents. She sits down beside him, making sure to keep an appropriate distance this time, and tells him about the Ark’s oxygen problem, which seems to interest him. Recounts the same father she used to spend every Saturday morning yelling at ancient soccer games with finding out about their home’s fate, the tape that carried the truth that he made for their people, the council deciding to float him for treason. The imminent and constant feeling of doom that came after, that still hasn’t left, that sometimes still creeps up on her at night, panic clawing up her throat.

It’s a piece of herself that she’s kept buried for over a year. Not necessarily out of want, but out of need. She didn’t have anyone to talk to in solitary. And she can’t talk to anyone about it  _ now _ because the only person she would ever consider talking to about this is coincidentally the only person she hates more than anyone else in the world. Bellamy might not be far from down the list from the title holder, but he’s easier, simpler. There isn’t mountains of history and unspoken betrayal between them.

There’s a loaded silence after she finishes her short recap of the Ark’s fucked up history, the words sinking in between them. Bellamy’s tone is hard to decipher when he does finally speak, a mix between thoughtful and smug. It doesn’t sit right with her. “Was he the only one who knew?”

Her head snaps towards him, forehead creasing as she wonders if he’s even been listening to her. “He’s the only one I told.”

He smirks again, but it’s small, kinder this time. As if he understands something she doesn’t, and is sympathetic for it. “That’s not what I asked.”

Clarke swallows tightly, looking back out at the crowd of dancing people until she finds Wells, chest growing tighter with each breath she takes. Bellamy pats her knee as he gets up to leave, and she feels so disconnected from her own body she doesn’t even react. “Once they’re ready, I’ll find them a suitable position in camp.”

He’s reinforcing who’s in charge, who’s in control, and maybe Clarke would have cared enough to come up with a biting retort if her entire world, the only one she’s ever known, the only one that’s ever made her feel safe and secure, hadn’t just been shattered into a million tiny pieces.

***

The first few days go by in a blur. They’re shown a little around the area but strictly advised to stay around camp when unsupervised, because just because they’re  _ unified  _ now doesn’t mean they’re safe. From what she understands, the Coalition is a brittle union at best. They’re introduced to a lot of new people, faces she can hardly keep apart at this point, most of them blurring together. 

She’s talked to Wells, begged for his forgiveness and he just brushed it off easily with a tight squeeze of his arms around her. It’s the only time she let herself cry since her father died. It shouldn’t be so easy, but he makes it so.

During the days she works tirelessly to keep their wounded alive without much help from the village healers, who don’t trust her nor her people, working until her hands cramp and it hurts to stand on her feet. In the few quiet moments she gets alone late at night while her roommates are out cold, she finds herself sleepless despite the exhaustion, staring into the dark as she lets herself grieve her mother. 

Half a week passes before she wakes up from a fitful three hour sleep to find her left side stinging painfully with each intake of breath. She groans quietly as she lifts her shirt slowly, the pale skin covering her ribs a blooming purple as she carefully observes it, flesh warm and tender under her touch. Clarke diagnoses herself with bruised ribs, mostly because it’s the best she can come up with. Writes it off as all the adrenaline in her system from the crash finally wearing off completely, the worst of her pain kicking in now. She’d seen it before with traumas on the Ark, sometimes the true agony wouldn’t start until a few days after the fact.

Since they only had a handful of pain-relieving balm half-heartedly gifted to them by the village’s healer Nyko for their wounded, Clarke doesn’t want to waste it on herself. She  _ thought  _ she’d done well hiding it so far, walking down the market with Monty while he hogs her about an update on Jasper, one of the more critically injured after the crash, who happens to be his best friend. She likes Monty, he’s a smart kid. She’d just been able to appease him and his relentless questions enough for them to venture into more lighthearted territory, like his impressive cultivation skills from growing up on Farm Station and his plans to make them moonshine, when she feels the strange and sudden overwhelming urge to look to her left. 

There, over by one of the stands, she finds Bellamy, feeling out different kinds of fabrics, and it’s only a beat before he catches her eye. In the three full seconds it takes her to tear her gaze away, a frown has appeared on his face and he’s saying something to the sturdy looking guy on his right. Before she knows it, he’s at her side, completely bulldozing whatever Monty was in the middle of saying. “Why are you walking weird?”

“I’m not,” she insists, strongly, sending Monty a wary look. The boy just looks alarmed, ducking his head enough for his hair to fall into his eyes and choosing to keep quiet. For a second, her nostrils flare. She’s sure Finn has told them all about Bellamy, installing more fear into a group of already scared, homeless teenagers. She’ll have to talk to him later, tell him to find another way to be the center of attention. 

Bellamy’s hand folds around her wrist tightly, forcing them to a halt. “Tell me.”

She jerks it loose, pain shooting up her side with the sudden movement and causing her to momentarily grit her teeth. Clarke inhales sharply through her nose, trying to keep her voice calm as she tries to figure out what his damn problem is. “I don’t know, okay?” She gives him a harsh look, not sure why he even cares. One moment he can’t stand to look at her, the next he’s acting like a concerned  — friend. “I guess I woke up and the crash finally caught up with me.” 

He starts to lift the hem off her shirt to presumably assess the damage himself, and Clarke’s cheeks immediately heat as she swats him away. She hisses, “What the hell?” Her eyes dart around the market to make sure no one saw, but it seems like only a few people are paying them any attention and they’re decent enough to pretend to be busy with something else. “We’re in public.” 

He just frowns, confused and slightly irritated, placing a similar demand as before. “Let me see.” 

She knows arguing will be little use with a stubborn ass like him, especially not surrounded by all his people, so she excuses herself to Monty, pulling the grounder king into the nearest vendor tent. There’s someone already there, a young blond boy, sharpening arrows, and Bellamy juts his chin at him. “Myles, can you give us the room?” 

The boy looks surprised at the sight of her, eyes flicking in between them curiously, but quickly schools his expression into one of indifference as he nods at his leader. “Of course.” 

Clarke feels like her jaw might snap from how hard she’s clenching it, watching the impatient look on his face as he stands there, staring at her with his arms crossed over his chest. Why is he acting so weird? If he’s worried about perceptions from other clans to how they’re being treated, Murphy has a gash on his face that nearly cost him his sight and Raven’s been limping around for days refusing anyone’s help. Yet she doesn’t see him chasing them into tents to glare them into taking their clothes off.

“I can do this all day,” Bellamy simply comments with a slow raise of his eyebrows, tapping one of his fingers on his bicep, challenge in his voice. The worst part of it is that she believes he could, and will. She exhales loudly, grudgingly. 

Reluctantly, Clarke grips the hem of her shirt, lifting it up to just below her bra. In the bright mid-daylight filtering in through the cracks, it doesn’t look as bad as it did this morning in the darkness, only half-awake. The angry red-purple is dotted over by a softer, muted yellow, but yeah, probably still pretty bad.

She freezes as Bellamy reaches out to graze his fingertips over her ribs, causing goosebumps to rise up on her skin at the unfamiliar intimacy of it. Her heart stutters, and she’s afraid he can feel it pound loudly under his touch. For a moment he just looks distracted as he examines the bruise, before abruptly pulling back his hand as if burned. Crushing it into a fist, he gazes up at her with blazing eyes, something indecipherable about the look on his face. Clarke is already shaking her head at his misplaced anger. “It’s not my fault, it’s not like I—”

She’s cut off by him dragging his shirt up to his chin, Clarke already turning her head away with widened eyes. Words spill out of her mouth, telling him to stop but they get caught in her throat as her eyes accidentally flick over his side before she’s fully turned away. Immediately, her defensive stance drops and she deflates, noticing the same exact bruising on his ribs as hers. 

The positioning, the size, the color; dark purple blooming into a faded yellow. It’s less prominent on his darker skin and covered slightly by familiar dark ink wrapping up the side of his torso, but it’s definitely there. 

Clarke drags her eyes up from his side, raking his face for answers. She doesn’t find much there, his expression shuttered. The first thing she comes up with through a hazy mind swimming with questions is, “What happened?”

He sniffs, looking off to the side, then spits, voice a dark rumble in his chest, “Early sparring session.”

It explains why  _ he  _ has bruises, not her. Clarke opens her mouth, then closes it. There’s a ringing in her head as she tries to make sense of all of this. Tentatively, she reaches out to ghost over the discoloration herself, make sure it’s real. His skin is warm, and it must be sensitive, but he never flinches.

Clarke licks her lips, quickly pulling back her hand as she tries to slow down the rapid drum inside her chest. Immediately and intrinsically, no matter how crazy it sounds based on so little proof, she knows this means  _ something.  _ She’s not sure what, but in her bones she knows that’s the only explanation for all of it. Her head spins as she tries to process that just a week ago she was in space. Now she’s here, on earth that despite all odds is habitable, standing in front of a boy, who couldn’t be more different from her, and yet — yet, in some fundamental ways they are undeniably identical. Clarke’s palm burns as she remembers.  _ Allied _ . “What does this mean?” 

Bellamy huffs, something strange about the way he looks at her, watching her, _ studying  _ her. Finally, “It means we’re fucked.” 

Pushing a hand into her hair, she stumbles back against a table, knocking over a set of arrows.  _ No. _ Her voice sounds distant, even to herself, “My dreams — they were real.”

Betrayal stains his words as he reels back. “You had dreams?” 

Clarke starts shaking her head, not sure what she’s actually denying here. “You looked familiar. Before I came down, sometimes I’d have flashes of the earth. Of a face. You, running through the woods. Hands,  _ your _ hands, sewing a garment.” Amongst many other things. Her throat feels scratchy and her world feels like it’s stopped spinning on it’s axis as she blinks at nothing, using hindsight bias to make sense of her memories on the Ark. Her mouth twitches, as if wanting to mold into a smile remembering. “I would draw them on the walls of my cell. I thought  — I thought  it was just me fantasizing about a day that would never come, getting to live down on earth.” Her hand trembles as she brings it up to scrub it over her mouth, tongue darting out to wet her dry lips. “I was in solitary for a year, so maladaptive daydreaming didn’t seem far fetched.” She trails off, meeting his dark eyes again as she swallows tightly. “When I saw you, I just figured I lost my mind. That it was a coincidence —”

“A coincidence?” Bellamy echoes with disbelief, voice harsh as his fists ball at his sides, knuckles pale. 

Her face scrunches up with disgust, scoffing loudly. This isn’t just on her. She  _ knows _ it isn’t. If she had dreams, so did he. “What’s your excuse?” 

He ignores her, running a hand over his face as he rests the other on his hip, pensive look taking over his face. It’s a demand and a plea at the same time, “You can’t tell anyone.” 

“Why not?” She hears herself ask, still raking his face for answers. She can tell he’s distracted, not even still paying attention to the conversation, or her, but her voice makes his head snap up, his expression harden. 

“Because having a soulmate makes you weak,” he barks back matter-of-factly, and the use of the word soulmate makes her reel back. That’s absurd. Soulmates  — that’s something they only talk about in the old movies from before the apocalypse. It’s not real, and even just considering they are is ridiculous. 

“We’re not soulmates,” Clarke argues immediately and insistently, even though he’s already turning away towards the nearest exit.

He seems to change his mind as he turns back around, scoffing, and then he’s suddenly in her space. His big hand slides down her ribs, the sting grounding her. She has to crane her neck to look him in the eye, the rest of her frozen in place. His voice is rough, breath hot as it fans over her face, meanly biting, “I wish it were different too, princess.” 

And then he’s gone, warmth of his hand still lingering on her waist. 

***

Clarke’s gone over it and over. She was tempted to tell Wells at one point, have him go over  _ with  _ her. She also considers Monty, because he seems reasonable, and Raven, since she’s the most honest person she knows. Even Finn, just because she knows he’d listen. Each time she contemplates it, Bellamy’s face flashes in front of her eyes and she remembers the way he told her, “ _ You can’t tell anyone. _ ” The slight desperation laced through the usual condescension and contempt in his voice, in his eyes. It shouldn’t, but it still keeps her from doing it every time. 

She wants to know if it’s true, and if it is, what it means. For her, for them. For their people.

She doesn’t see him again except for in passing until a few evenings later, when the representatives of two nearby clans come to visit them. Nyko, who’s reluctantly and sparsely been exchanging medical information with her, informs her they’re here for a territory meeting. 

“They’re concerned,” he tells her, not particularly kind or unkind, showing her how to use a mortar and a grater to pestle a red-colored breed of seaweed into an antibiotic. “That we’ll need more space.”

Clarke wipes at a bead of sweat on her temple with the back of her wrist, careful not to stain her face crimson. “Because of us?”

He starts skillfully fusing the newly made powder with a mixture of salt and water, her eyes intent on his every move considering he’s not a man of many words and prefers showing her information rather than telling her. “Yes.” 

There’s just eighty-seven of them. She hardly thinks that’ll make much of a difference when Trikru’s entire population is at least five times as big. They’ve mapped out enough ground in the main village for all the cabins needed to house them. Even if they eventually need to venture farther into the woods to make sure they collect enough fruit and nuts and find enough animals to hunt to feed everyone, she’s sure even that won’t end up making that big of a dent in the earth’s resources. And even if it’s not housing or food they’re worried about, but instead something stupid like dignity or principle, she’s certain they could work something out. But, Clarke has also stopped pretending she has a clue about the customs and rules on the ground. “Even if we need it, we won’t just take it, will we?”

Nyko cackles loudly, startling her. She’s never actually seen him smile, let alone heard his _ laughter _ . He sounds amused and slightly mockingly as he explains, “You must know by now  does whatever the hell he wants, .”

Clarke decides to let it go for now, instead tricks him into showing her in what proportions to blend the powder with the saltwater again. 

The meeting must go well, because once the sky starts to turn pink, the drums are brought out and a horn is blown, signaling another feast. This one is modest compared to the last one celebrating their  _ ‘union _ ’, but it still warrants an excited buzz amongst both of their people. 

Clarke first notices Bellamy once she gets a plate of food, completely famished from pestling for hours. Just before dinner, she tentatively put it to the test on Jasper, who still hasn’t recovered and is now showing early symptoms of sepsis. He’s off to the side by the line of people in front of the tavern, talking to an unfamiliar woman who must be from one of the other clans. She’s tall, willowy. Brown hair flows down her back and white paint forms intrinsic shapes on her temples and cheekbones. Finn finds her eye, lighting up as he waves at her. She ignores him. 

Suddenly she’s not nearly as hungry as before, nor does she feel like socializing with anyone, so she slinks off to a quiet spot by the fire. She tries to eat some of the red, juicy looking berries on her plate that made her mouth water before, but her eyes make their way back to the two of them without her permission. 

Their faces are lit by one of the lanterns hanging from a nearby tree. The woman says something, and although her face remains impassive, Bellamy must find it funny because he laughs and touches her shoulder briefly. There’s something strangely  _ familiar _ between the two of them , something easy and casual, and for some reason it’s hard to look at.  Clarke pops a berry in her mouth, chewing forcefully, but it tastes too sour for her likings. 

It’s his sister that finds her by the fire, hopping close enough to the log Clarke’s sitting on before tossing her make-shift crutches to the ground and lowering herself down beside her. Clarke hasn’t seen her in weeks, last thing she heard from some of the others was that she was on strict bedrest, Lincoln at her direct disposal during most of it. 

“You look good,” Clarke tells her, genuinely meaning it. Her cheeks are covered in a healthy flush, her green eyes look clear and considering her leg can bear some weight now it must mean it’s not as bad as it was before. 

“I do,” she agrees, beaming brightly as she bends over to pick up a stray branch, starting to break off pieces in her lap with the knife she pulls from her boot. “Now that I’m no longer going stir-crazy cooped up in my cabin.” She cocks an eyebrow, flicking her eyes up briefly. “ _ _ .”

Clarke hums non-committedly, stuffing a piece of bread in her mouth just to pretend she’s doing something as her eyes linger on the pair by the tavern again. She doesn’t know why she’s drawn to them when watching them makes her stomach churn weirdly, but she figures maybe that’s exactly the reason she is. She wants to examine the unfamiliar feeling, wants to know  _ why _ the sight makes her uncomfortable, and she can’t quite put her finger on it. 

Bellamy says something to the woman, invitingly thrusting his cup her way and she takes it from him. Her eyes meet his over the rim of the cup as she takes a slow sip, and Clarke almost knocks her plate onto the ground with the way her knee jerks involuntarily. That’s definitely _ suggestiv _ e.

“That’s Echo.” Octavia catches her eye on them and ducks her head, long braided hair a curtain to hide her smirk as she tosses a piece of wood at the source of heat in front of them. “She was promised to him before.”

_ Echo. _ That must be the woman. It suits her, the name. She’s pretty enough too, she guesses.

“To Bellamy?” Clarke wonders, which earns her a raise of Octavia’s eyebrows. She throws another small twig into the campfire, making it sizzle. “For what?”

“An union,” she explains, simple and impassive, with a lazy shrug of her shoulders. She twirls the knife between the tips of her fingers. It gleams in the orange firelight, drawing Clarke’s attention. “Before we took you in, of course.”

“Before,” she echoes, the question evident in her voice. It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, but she needs to know anyway. Maybe this is why he resents her so much, that in saving her people, he lost the girl he loved.

“Unions between two clans are rare, let alone three.” Temporarily pausing, Octavia flips her knife into the air, catching it easily when it comes back down and stabbing it straight into the log in between them. Every thing feels more distracting to Clarke right now than it usually would, as if she’s not actually in her own body as it tries to come to terms with what she’s slowly realizing. Her eyes flit from the blade to the kindling flames, her brain lagging as it processes the images. In the distance, there’s a cacophony of cackles, one she recognizes as Riley’s. The bark of the log is rough under her palms. Clarke digs her nails into it, trying to ground herself. “Before you joined us, it was supposed to be Azgeda. To share our resources and diversify the bloodline. Lexa won’t allow it now.”

Clarke freezes, not liking the direction this conversation is taking. She never asked for this. She never asked for him to give up — whatever she is to him. “Why not? There’s only eighty-seven of us, I hardly think that’s—”

“Lexa is good at separating duty from personal feelings. And so, recognizing the quality or lack thereof in others,” the brunette cuts her off, adjusting the splint stuck to her shin before squinting her eyes at Clarke for a moment, as if trying to figure her out. Whether she succeeds or not, she eventually adds, “She was expecting loyalties to shift.”

She should be offended. She halfway is. “I don’t let my personal feelings cloud my judgement.”

“Not you,” Octavia laughs, and it seems like it’s at her, not with. “Have you met my brother?”

Clarke startles, scrunching up her face. Now she’s not making any sense. It must be some sort of joke. “He barely knows me.”

She tilts her head, eyebrows rising slowly as if in disbelief over her ignorance. “You saved my life, Clarke. That’s all he needs to know.”

None of it makes any sense.  _ Promised to him _ before.  _ Diversify the bloodline _ .  _ The bonding ritual.  _ Is he expecting all of that from her too? Her head spins, nausea rolling over her in waves, and soon she’s stammering, shaking her head, “I don’t—”

“Don’t worry,” Octavia smiles as she starts to push herself up off the log, stumbling slightly as she bends back down to reach for her crutches. The smile feels forced, cold even, and it’s clear why when she throws in the loving nickname. “My brother won’t make you do anything you don’t want to, Sky Princess.”

***

The next time Echo visits, they actually meet. It’s anything but pleasant. 

“You need to learn how to fight,” Echo tells her, tossing a sword at her feet. Tells her this after when, without warning, a backhanded slap has landed Clarke down onto the ground in the middle of the trade market, holding her jaw. The other woman raises her eyebrows at her, challengingly, crossing her boney arms over her chest.

_ What the _ — Clarke pushes herself up into a seated position, brushing the dirt off her forearm as she glares up at the spy. She’s not going to physically  _ fight _ someone in front of all of Trikru for no good reason. And that’s besides the fact she wouldn’t know how. “What the hell is your problem?”

Echo shoves her down again as soon as Clarke starts to attempt to rise to her feet, the angle in which she falls causing her to land flat on her face. Clarke groans, squeezing her eyes shut briefly. “Get up,” the Azgedian spy spits, kicking the sword closer to her as if to make a point.

“Go float yourself,” she retorts over her shoulder, stubbornly staying put this time. This woman is batshit. Her nose throbs, and she feels some warm liquid trickle down her face.  _ Great.  _ “I’m not going to fight you.”

“This has to be a joke,” Echo chuckles to herself, shaking her head at Clarke as she glares down at her from above. The laughter is cold, forced. “He bonded with  _ you _ ?” She scoffs, kicking at the dirt before walking closer and aiming at her ribs this time, something she didn’t expect nor had time to prepare for. Clarke rolls over into the sand on her back, air knocked from her lungs as she cradles her side with both hands. “Look at you, you’re weak.” Her voice is full of spite and disgust, her lip curled with disdain and her nose wrinkled like she’s smelling something rank. “You could never give him what he needs.”

Clarke spits a mouthful of blood at the other woman’s feet. She might not be able to take this bitch out, but she will get the last word. “Right, so your feelings are hurt because, despite all of that, he still picked me over you?”

Echo stomps her foot down on the handle of the sword, the force of it lifting it up into her hand in one swell swoop before she starts to charge. “That’s enough,” someone yells demandingly, elbowing their way through the crowd that’s formed around them.

She turns her head and lets out a sigh of relief as Miller takes Echo by the elbow, slamming her back into one of the vendor tables roughly. “That’s enough,” he repeats, roughly, yanking the sword from her grip and chucking it aside. “Do I need to remind you that you are a guest here?”

The Azgedian just scowls, grunting low in the back of her throat. Miller continues to speak to her in a quiet but firm voice. Clarke strains to hear the words spoken but then Monty’s already rushing to her side, helping her from the ground. There’s a dull ache around the dip in her waist, but as she attempts to send her friend a grateful smile she’s reminded it’s actually her face that took the worst hit. 

He brings her to their make-shift infirmary, and since he scrunches up his nose at the blood staining his trembling hands and blanches, Clarke convinces him she’ll be fine by herself. She could do with some privacy to wallow while both tending to and licking her wounds. It was humiliating being attacked like that in front of everyone with no one from Trikru being willing to help her. And over what?  _ Bellamy _ ? He can’t even stand to be her around her half of the time. She’s sure if he actually had a choice, he  _ would _ have picked Echo. So what was the metaphorical pissing contest for? Revenge?

Speaking of the devil, she should probably help him patch up the identical injury he’s most likely sporting by now and most definitely ignoring. He won’t be happy about it, but if it somehow gets infected and he develops sepsis her people will be even worse off. 

She finds him in the armory, hunched over a bunch of papers spread across the table in the middle of the room. There’s a stick of coal in his hand, using it to cross out and circle certain areas on what seem to be land maps of their surrounding areas. 

“Did you really let  _ Echo  _ rearrange our noses?” Bellamy asks, in lieu of a greeting. An amused grin is badly hidden on his face as it flicks up to look at her, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, gone as soon as he looks back down at his maps. 

She leans her hip against the stack of boxes beside her, crossing her arms over her chest. He doesn’t seem to be in pain, but the skin on the bridge of his nose is broken just like hers, and there’s a dark shadow forming just below his jaw, just like hers. She still can’t quite wrap her head around it. It’s crazy. She scoffs. “Did Miller already come to gloat?”

He unrolls a new map, sounding distracted as he follows a vertical and then horizontal coordinate with his fingers. “No, he’s taking care of some business.”

“So then who…” Clarke trails off, watching his posture stiffen, hands freeze. He knew she got hurt, because he did too. He couldn’t have known it was Echo unless— “You were there?”

“I was, briefly. I couldn’t stay,” he answers, at least decent enough to pretend to be apologetic as he thumbs through one of the journals on the table, refusing to meet her eye. He lifts a shoulder, non-committedly. “If they saw—” His eyes flick to the cut on the bridge of her nose, grimacing slightly before pointedly looking away again. 

Clarke grits her teeth together, her blood boiling.  _ Of course _ . Always trying to save his own ass. God forbid someone finds out he has a weakness and it’s her. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”    
  


He doesn’t respond, eyes raking the page in front of him as if she’s not even there. She has half a mind to walk away, but then changes her mind at the last minute, turning back around to face him. Maybe it’s not that she’s a weakness, maybe it’s really just that he doesn’t give a fuck about her. Not enough to risk offending the woman he was  _ supposed  _ to form an alliance with. Message received. “I can’t believe you’re protecting her. I guess it makes sense, considering you were all over her after the last territory meeting.” Still no visible reaction.  _ Fuck you _ . Clarke scoffs, looking him up and down with disgust. “Sorry for being sent down here to die and ruining your chances with her.”

This, finally, seems to get her somewhere. His eyes meet hers, blazing darkly. “As if I would ever be caught alive with an  _ Azgedian _ .” He huffs, an air of dry laughter to it as he turns back to the journal. Although she can tell he’s too fired up to actually take in anything he’s reading, he pretends to, probably just to keep his hands busy. “It’s all politics. I make her laugh, she doesn’t run off to tell her king exactly how much of a threat we are to them.”

She narrows her eyes, fingernails digging into her forearms where they’re crossed over her chest. “Not an Azgedian, but Echo.”

“What?” He snaps, aggravated, looking back up at her. 

Clarke grits her teeth briefly, trying to keep her calm. Is he purposely acting obtuse? It’s right there in between the lines. “You’re saying that if she wasn’t an Azgedian, you’d—”

He actually laughs, loud enough to make his shoulders shake. “Absolutely not,” he opposes, firmly, face quickly turning sour as he slams the journal shut. “She’s not my type. I’m not into disloyal snakes only looking out for their own survival.”

Here’s where it stops making sense to Clarke. On the Ark, not all marriages were out of love, but nobody was ever forced to align themselves with someone they openly despised. “But she was ‘promised’ to you.” 

Simply, he says, “It was for the Coalition.” That seems to be his entire explanation.

Her face scrunches up, getting annoyed now. If a bonding ritual really means that little to him in the grand scheme of things, if he was even willing to do it with someone he hates that much, what kind of worth does it actually have? What worth does he think  _ he _ has? His life, his body, his alliance. “For the Coalition, huh?  _ Diversifying the bloodline _ is for the coalition too?”

“What’s your problem?” He glares at her, hands flat on the surface of the table. His brow furrows, resentment in his tone. “I never picked her, princess. She was picked for me.” 

Like Clarke was picked for him too, he means. He’s stuck with her because he did the decent thing and saved her people. A small part of her can’t help but wonder if one day — maybe he’ll want something in return. Something that was promised to him by a different bonding ritual, something he would’ve gotten if it wasn’t for her. 

“Can you…?” She has to ask. Ask if maybe somewhere down the line he could still have what he was promised. With someone else. 

“No,” he says almost immediately, certain, knuckles turning white from where they’re wrapped around the edge of the table. ¨”That’s against the rules of the bonding ritual.” He clears his throat, flicking a curl from his eye with a shake of his head, something indecipherable flashing across his face. “But you don’t have to worry about it. Over time, our people — they’ll diversify the bloodline themselves and then we’ll truly be one, a unity.”

It makes sense. If they’re supposed to be the example leading their people to an everlasting union, it could be perceived strangely if one of them started a family with someone else. It would defeat the purpose. 

She starts shaking her head, resigned. “I can’t give that to you, Bellamy.” Her face hardens, because no matter how bad it makes her feel he won’t get to have that, she refuses to feel guilty because of it. “I won’t.” She hesitates, for a moment, her mouth opening and closing. Then she braves it, licking her lips, “And I won’t get mad at you if, if there’s someone else—”

“I never expected that of you,” he hisses back, cutting her off with a dark look in his eyes, although most of the anger leaves him by the end of it. He sounds more defeated now, does a well-enough job of covering up something that almost sounds  _ pained _ , “And no matter what you seem to think of me, I never will.”

She tries to meet his eye, but he refuses. Looking anywhere but at her, rather fixating his eyes on the mess of papers in front of him than on her.

“So you gave up your chance to have children for me,” Clarke concludes, because it sounds even stupider out loud. She’s seen him around kids, here and there, and he seems to prefer them to adult people. He’s good with them, makes them laugh. From what she’s gathered, he basically raised Octavia himself. Will this really be enough for him, down the line? The knowledge that he sacrificed all of that to save eighty-seven strangers. Her stomach flips and she quickly corrects herself, before he notices, “For my people.”

“I did it because you saved my sister,” he reaffirms again, matter-of-factly, running a hand through his curls. His fingers are stained black from the coal and he leaves a smudge on his forehead. He says it as if he’s repeated it a million times, as if rehearsed, “And Lexa owed me for the Mountain.”

He still won’t look at her. “I don’t get you,” she murmurs, voicing her confusion, her frustration. With this situation, with her lack of control over any of it, with all of the unspoken things between them. Her eyes linger on the bruise on his jaw and she clenches her own. “I didn’t help your sister with the intention to get anything in return.”

“I know,” Bellamy counters, and this time he does raise up his chin to meet her gaze. He sounds quiet, serious. “That’s why I did it.” There’s a long pause as he slowly searches her face, lingering on the middle of her face as one corner of his mouth turns up. “And if we’re going to be a unity, you should learn how to throw a punch.” He’s full-on smirking now, eyes gleaming as if he’s in on a joke and she isn’t. “Follow me.”

He makes a move to come around the table, but Clarke remains frozen in place, her shoulders stiffening as she stares at the back wall of the tent with a neutral expression. If she sounds bratty, well, so be it. “And now why would I do that?”

“Because you want this to work out too.” Now that he’s standing in front of her, leaning back against the table, she has to crane her neck to look him in the eye. He’s still smirking, knowingly, and Clarke inhales heavily through her nose to resist the urge to punch it off him. They’re closer than she’d necessarily want them to be, but she’s not going to let him win by backing down. “ _ And _ you’re humiliated by the fact Echo had your ass handed to you.”

“I’m not  _ humiliated, _ ” Clarke hisses in return, defensively, her cheeks flushing as she worries her jaw. Her fingers curl into fists, ignoring how much heat is radiating off his body and how much he smells like earth after a fresh rainfall. A scent that she, just a few months ago, wasn’t even aware existed. 

She focuses on the facts here. Before being attacked by that bloodhound, she’d just come back from checking on Jasper’s bandages. She finished inventory yesterday and went on a supply run for herbs the day before that. And the truth is, she  _ could _ use some help when it comes to fighting. Nobody would blame her for taking him up on it.

He grimaces, half-heartedly considering he’s also stifling a grin because he thinks he’s oh-so-funny, moving a strand of hair away from her eyes and placing it behind her ear. Her cheeks color even more, and his grin just widens. “You should be.”

Bellamy’s still laughing at the expression on her face as she follows him down a leaf-strewn path twisting through the woods. It’s strangely quiet except for the birds that chirp merrily in the distance and the branches that crunch under her feet.

“God, you walk obnoxiously loud,” he complains at one point, holding aside a green bush enough for them to slip past it. The condescension in his tone never fails to rile her up.

Is there  _ anything _ she can do right in his eyes? Clarke just rolls her eyes, wiping at the sweat that’s formed on her brow with the back of her hand. “If you’re taking me somewhere secluded to kill me, it would’ve been easier to just—”

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead, princess,” Bellamy simply counters, amused. He almost walks into a tree while they’re going down a slope because he’s too busy smirking at her over his shoulder. He dodges it just in time, but she finds it sweet karmic justice he was just almost knocked down a peg. Literally. “Would it kill you to have a little trust?”

“Yes,” she mutters under her breath, although he lets it go without comment as they venture further and further into the woods. They don’t stop until they reach an open field of grass that’s bar of any trees, causing the sun to beat down on them harshly. Clarke puts her hands on her hips, observing the new spot before looking up at the blue sky, shielding her eyes from the bright rays with one hand. 

She at least, if anything, can appreciate that this time she won’t be getting crushed in front of half the village. Then she makes a move to step around to face him, stumbling over a concealed rock and sprawling, barely being able to catch herself on her hands in time to not land on her face. Again. Frustrated, she blows a piece of hair from her face as she rolls onto her ass. Today is not her day.

He’s laughing at her, because of course he’d find this f _ unny, _ offering her a hand to help her up. “First rule, always be aware of your surroundings.”

Infuriated, she slaps his hand away, getting onto her feet herself as she mimics his stance. They might as well get to it. Hands up, feet wide, annoying face. Seems about right. “What’s the Mountain?”

He takes his first jab at her, stopping just before his fist makes contact with her jaw. Bellamy sighs, aggravated. “ _ Never _ lower your arms.”

This time, she keeps her arms up, leaning her body to the right as he takes his next swing, dodging it. He’s ignoring her question. Another tactic then. “I noticed something. After we freed Octavia’s leg.”

Bellamy’s teeth grit together briefly enough she almost misses it. Just as she avoids a dig from the right, his other hand stops just an inch before colliding with her shoulder on the left.  _ Damnit _ . “The color of her blood.”

Clarke nods, imperceptibly. It was hard to tell through the heavy downpour of rain washing it away from her body like a river, the smoke hanging around and covering the darkness surrounding them in a white hue, all the commotion around the crash, but she’s seen so much blood, studying under her mother — she figured it was radiation related, or some hematologic illness she’d yet to learn about. “It was black.”

She tries to get in a punch this time, but he cleverly manages to catch her hand in his grip, using it as leverage to twist her around, slamming her back into his chest, forearm hooked over her collarbone. She can feel his body heat through the thin material of their shirts, the firmness of his chest. Her whole body tenses up as her heart hammers loudly, and then he’s carefully shoving her forward, and away from him. 

As she turns back around, there’s a challenging look in his eyes and for some reason her throat feels dry. “We call it  _ Sheidjus. _ Nightblood.” Right. Obvious choice. Clarke muffles a huff of laughter. He lifts an eyebrow, confused with her amusement. “When she was born and we found out she was a , my mom had us pretend she died during birth.” His face falls, scraping his throat lightly. “Most of her life, Octavia spent hidden.”

Bellamy motions for her to make another play at him, and she decides to imitate his earlier technique, trying to get in a hit on one side while he’s distracted with her other hand making a move on the opposite side. Except it doesn’t work, and he easily avoids both. Clarke lets out a grunt of frustration. “Why?”

“Tighten your core.” He lifts one of her elbows a little higher, hand folding around the joint, then pats her abdomen to show her how vulnerable her current posture is. She does as he says, sucking in her belly-button as best as she can. “If you’re a Nightblood, you’re in line to become Commander. Once the current one dies, the Nightbloods fight each other to become the next.”

She swallows, tight and her posture deflates just slightly. “To the death?”

Bellamy nods. 

“What happens when…” She trails off, uncomfortable. The answer seems obvious, but it shouldn’t be. Yet here on the ground, everything seems possible.

Without much emotion, he informs her, “Death by a thousand cuts for you and your entire blood lineage.”

Clarke narrowly fends off his next punch, catching him by the wrist, but her lower stomach glows with the way his eyes gleam as if impressed for just barely the fraction of a second. See, she’s learning. Except, she already feels exhausted and he hardly seems out of breath. It’s not fair.

Skillfully, he disentangles his wrist from her grip, moving so quick she hardly registers the hand that slips under her armpit to dig into the back of her shoulder, the other folding around her neck until it’s cradling the base of her skull, their foreheads pressing together because of the angle. She struggles in his hold, fingers clasping uselessly at his shirt where it covers his side, but it’s no use. “When Octavia was a baby, Lexa had already been training for six years. By the time she could walk, it’d been eight. My sister was miserable inside of the house, but at least she was safe.” His nostrils flare, although she suspects he’s not angry with her this time, and for just a moment his fingers dig just a little bit harder into the back of her neck. “Once my mom died I knew it was a matter of time before she was found out.” Bellamy makes a move as if to show her how easily he could’ve hoisted her up and flipped her over into the hard ground in this position before letting go of her completely, moving backwards. He shakes his head lightly, disturbing his disarray of curls even more, lost in the memory for a moment. “Then the Commander was killed — I knew Octavia could never beat her.” He looks regretful for just a moment, for saying the words out loud. “If anyone ever found out about Octavia, her existence — it would make Lexa look bad. She’d appear weak, an unworthy Commander.”

Her chest is heaving at this point, muscles in her arms and back sore and aching from the way she just strained against him, although completely futile. Clarke notes, “She’s not hiding anymore.”

“No,” he agrees, heavily. Stupidly assuming he’s distracted, she risks a punch, but he grabs her by the wrist and elbow, easily pinning the arm to her back, pulling her sideways into him so her shoulder is pressed against his sternum. “I convinced Lexa to exchange my sister’s freedom for the fall of the Mountain. She agreed, and I went in.”

The illusive Mountain again. Important enough for the Commander to risk her reign over. She raises her eyebrows, yanking her arm loose from his grip as she juts up her chin at him, confidently. A bead of sweat trails down her temple. “So if you got her freedom, how did you still get to use the Mountain as leverage for our alliance?”

He stiffens, barely, and if she wasn’t so attuned to his every move at the moment she probably would’ve missed it. “There’s three critical zones while fighting, no matter how big or strong your opponent is.” He motions at each of them while telling her, “Eyes, throat, groin.” Their earlier conversation looks to be over, but then he seems to change his mind. “Something happened, while I was inside... If our people knew — all this time, I’ve kept her secret.” His eyes were softened with guilt, but now his face grows harder, nudging his chin at her. “Repeat the zones.”

“Eyes, throat, groin,” she echoes dryly, and this time she surprises him by stomping on his foot, getting a hard hit in right on his kidney. If anything, Clarke Griffin is an above average student. She learns quickly.

Her own side now actually seems to be aching something fierce, although she wouldn’t be able to tell from his stone-cold expression that he’s feeling the same thing, so Clarke gives up, halfhearted swatting away his next jab before falling down into the grass. While trying to catch her breath, she also tries to wrap her mind around it. 

He used the last of the leverage he had on Lexa to save her people. That couldn’t have been an easy decision, and yet he took it within moments.

She swallows hard, fixing her eyes on a bee as she hugs her knees to her chest. It lands on a nearby daisy, buzzing around quietly before taking off again. “Won’t you regret it?”

After a beat of silence, Bellamy follows her lead, lowering himself to the ground as his knees protest loudly. “Regret what?”

“In twenty years, when you look back and realize this — our _ alliance _ — it cost you the chance to have a family.” She looks up to search his face, but his usual mask of indifference is in place. “To have a real — bond.” She clamps her mouth shut, not even sure what to call it. 

On the Ark, people got married. She’s not sure if it’s entirely the same thing, or if they have some sort of separate bonding ritual for that, but they sound a lot alike. A lifelong commitment, sharing children. Idly, she wonders if they use words like ‘husband’ and ‘wife’, if that’s what they are to each other.

“I always knew that wasn’t in the cards for me once I started leading my people.” By all intents and purposes, it’s a sad statement, although he says it like he’s listing the armory’s inventory, like he’s made his peace with. Clarke gets it. Back in space, Jaha used to sit her and Wells down. Tell them about how leadership was a lonely pursuit. She always thought he was talking out of grief, after losing his wife. Now, on the ground — she understands. She respects Bellamy, though, for his honesty. “I don’t expect anything from you, Clarke. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

She’s already shaking her head lightly, without even registering it first. He’s an ass, but not that kind of ass. And — she hasn’t been fair to him. He’s given up a lot in order for her people to have a home. Clarke swallows her pride, although she finds this less difficult than she’d expected. “Well thank you. For — for saving us.”

He ducks his head, hiding a shit-eating grin if she’s ever seen one. “It only took you two months.”

She narrows her eyes at him, jostling his knee playfully. “I can still take it back.”

Bellamy laughs, and then as it trails off, a comfortable lull of quietness falls over them. She realizes she hasn’t had a moment of true silence since she came down to earth. It’s nice. Then he speaks, and it’s not, “If you think about it, it’s good, that I didn’t end up in an alliance with Echo. I would’ve killed her by now, broken the Coalition.” It’s not  _ much _ of a compliment, Clarke thinks, that he doesn’t harbor homicidal feelings towards her, but a compliment nonetheless. From under his curls, he squints at her, because of the sun high in the sky, plucking mindlessly at the grass and tossing it aside. The bright light catches on his eyes, makes them look like liquid amber. One corner of his mouth turns up, boyishly, “Would’ve been kind of messy.”

“Yet you let her beat me up,” Clarke muses, heatless. She doesn’t know if it’s the exhaustion or the sudden realisation he’s _ attractive _ , but she doesn’t have it in her to suppress a matching smile right now.

One of his eyebrows raises. “Miller stopped her, didn’t he?”

“And I suppose you asked him to?” She rolls her eyes, voice heavy with sarcasm. 

“Obviously,” he surprises her, and for a moment she thinks she can best describe the feeling whirling through her lower abdomen as ‘touched’. Then his eyes start to gleam mischievously, and it’s gone. “Like I said, you can’t throw a punch to save your life and I can’t have you damaging my handsome face permanent—”

She shoves him, hard enough for him to have to put out his hand to support his weight behind him and keep from falling over as he loudly laughs. It’s a nice sound, his laughter, she notes distantly. “How could I ever regret an alliance with someone as charming as you?”

Suddenly Bellamy’s reaching out, fingers ghosting over the bridge of her nose tentatively and her own laughter fades quickly as she freezes in place. She watches his throat bob up and down heavily, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. “It’s not broken, is it?”

“Wouldn’t you know if it was?” Clarke bites, but her breath’s shaky as she exhales and it sounds softer than intended. Her eyelashes flutter. 

He smiles, distant, dropping his hand as he pulls one of his knees up to his chest. “I’ve broken my nose so many times I think my nerve endings have given up.”

Tentatively, she reaches out and touches his cut too, just the graze of her fingertips as her bottom lip slides between her teeth. He takes care of all of them, and for the first time she finds herself wondering who takes care of him. She stifles a grin. “I thought you said to never lower your arms.”

“Ah, the princess is being funny now, huh?” Bellamy jokes, slapping her hand away playfully before poking her softly in the ribs.

“Watch it,” she teases, pressing a hand to her side. “Your almost wife kicked me right there.”

“I know,” he says, pointedly before his face scrunches up, elbow dangling off the top of his knee. “And we don’t use ‘ _ wife _ ’ for alliances between lovers.”

Her eyes trace his face slowly. “Then what do you call it?”

“,” Bellamy tells her, meeting her gaze. “It’s like—” One of his shoulders lifts in a casual gesture. “A life partner.”

“Partners,” she echoes, and when she smiles so does he. “I like that.”

Silence stretches between them for a moment and Clarke eyes are steady on the horizon, their faces aglow with orange rays that are as bold as the clementines she’s been made to try. A fruit that didn’t even exist to her a few short months ago, an awareness that is still hard to grasp some days. Sunsets, too. Her fingers itch to paint it, this very moment, the sepia glow, the powder pink rose petal it fades into, the lacy white-edged clouds splattered across it. Intrinsically, she knows she’ll never do it justice.

“Clarke,” he starts, suddenly, breaking her out of her reverie and when she turns her head to blink at him in confusion, he’s already watching her. “No matter what—” Bellam cuts himself off, brief, a clench in his jaw as his fingers curl into a fist. “Know that I am happy with the way—with the alliance I ended up with.”

She presses her lips together. She wants to ask him more, always wants to ask him more. About soulmates. And life on earth. About weird customs, and the scar on his lip. But she doesn't want to ruin the moment. Instead, she swallows, and then forces herself to smile. “Well, if it had to be any Grounder King, I’m glad it was you, too.”

(Echo leaves with the imprint of a blade on her throat and a sour look on her face. She wonders how many  _ politics _ were involved with that.)

  
  


***

“Hey princess!”

Clarke nearly drops her substitute lunch, a bowl of fresh berries, in her hurry to crane her neck around at the source of the sound. It’s not Bellamy, but he’s there, with his arms crossed over his chest, an amusing glint in his eyes as a thin layer of sweat covers the red flush on his face. The voice is Monroe’s, and she’s holding up a ball. She doesn't know when the nickname became common property, and she's not sure she likes it.

“Wanna play?” The ruddy-haired girl shouts, across the courtyard. A few other kids look her way, ranging from curious to wary.

Slowly, Clarke closes some of the distance between them, wondering, “What is it?”

“I tried to teach them soccer, but they’re useless at it,” Monroe rolls her eyes, still panting a little as she pins the small leather ball to her hip. The mention of soccer sends a little pang of nostalgia through Clarke’s system, a flash of her and her dad side by the side on the couch, but it goes as fast as it comes. “So we’re playing si…?” She struggles, looking at some of the other kids. 

“,” Myles fills in matter-of-factly, pushing his hand through his sweaty dirty blonde hair. 

Clarke’s eyes slowly drag over to Bellamy, taking in the swipe of dirt on his jaw before skeptically raising her brows. “You’re playing?”

“I am,” he relents, his mouth twitching as he teasingly jostles one of the boys from his team and the eighty-seven, Jones, his arm around his shoulders. “And my team is winning.”

“Hell yeah we are,” Monroe cuts in, to a bunch of protests from what is presumably the other team, Sky People and Grounders alike, then sending Clarke another bright smile, squinting because of the sun high in the sky behind her. “So, you wanna give us some competition?”

“I can’t,” she brushes her off, tucking a strand that’s fallen from her braid back behind her ear. She sends the disappointed faces an apologetic look. “I have to check up on some patients and do inventory.”

“Come on, just one game,” Monroe starts with a frown, with someone else she doesn’t recognize following up with, “Yeah, come on, Clarke,” and Aden insisting, “Just for a little while!”

She worries her lip, trying to find a way to let them and their disappointed faces down easy. It’s not them, or Bellamy, she really _ is _ busy. She only allowed herself to take a fifteen minutes break because she was starting to feel light in her head.

“You guys heard the princess, she’s busy,” Bellamy cuts in, thankfully, ruffling Aden’s hair before stealing a berry from Clarke’s bowl, popping it into his mouth. She gives him a stern look, ignoring the heckles coming from the crowd.

“Some other time, okay?” Clarke promises them, genuinely, and then Ethan slaps the ball from Monroe’s grip, Myles picking it up from the ground to run away as yells errupt and the group splits into individuals, chasing after the ball. It’s nice, that they’re all getting along so well. 

Bellamy shakes his head at them, grimacing when someone enthusiastically tackles Myles to the ground, then turning around to face her again. His face is unreadable, big hands resting on his hips as he silently stares her down. There’s dark spots around the collar of his tan shirt, bulging biceps slick with sweat and grime. He flicks his head, trying to get a few stray curls out of his line of sight, freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose.

“Another time,” she repeats, idly, feeling hot all over just looking at him, a flush creeping down from her chest to her lower belly. She doesn’t know what she’s trying to convince him off, just can’t stand that smug look in his beady eyes and the reasonless flustered feeling coursing through her veins.

“Another time,” he agrees with a smirk, giving her a slow once-over. “Enjoy your berries.”

Before she can say anything else, he jogs off to pull Myles from the ground, easily interrupting the ball from Aden as they start the game back up. Clarke puts a handful of the fruit into her mouth, chewing slowly as she watches them kick the ball over to each other. 

It doesn’t do anything to fill this new craving that’s suddenly bloomed in the pit of her stomach and she ends up leaving half of them for the kids before returning back to her patients. 

***

Harper is the one who finds him by one of the trees, a few feet behind the forestline. Trikru custom is to burn the body, it doesn’t feel right to take Wells away from the earth when he just got there. He liked— _ loved _ it here. There wasn’t anyone else who tried as hard as him to make it work. Clarke insists on a burial. 

At first, she’s just numb. She sits at the grave for hours, clenching the earth between her fists as silent tears run down her face. They had fun, yesterday night. She thinks of how they were probably all laughing, and drinking wine and swapping war stories while Wells was—she’s just so—she can’t—needs… God, she can hardly breathe. She can’t think, or sit here by his grave, or cry. She has to—she has to do something.  _ Bellamy. _ She has to find him. Has to talk to him.

“This is an act of war,” Clarke announces, storming into his cabin unannounced. He’s not alone, but she doesn’t care. Her eyes dart around erratically, her voice thick from tears. She marches right up to him, her heart pounding loudly. “You need to find out who did this, you need to tell  _ Lexa _ —”

“Calm down,” he demands, lowering her hand away from where it’s pointing at his chest, something she hadn’t even realized she was doing. He talks to her as if he’s talking to a child, eyes flicking over to Miller in one of the chairs and then back to her. “I have it under control.”

She jerks her hand away from him, shaking her head as more tears threaten to spill. She won’t let them. “He’s my best friend. Somebody killed him.” It starts to dawn on her, like a punch in the gut. “But you don’t care, do you?” She sniffs, then hisses, seething, “Because he’s not one of your people.”

He grits his teeth together, inhaling sharply. “Can you guys give us the room?”

She doesn’t even wait for Miller and whoever else is there to slam the door behind them, already pushing him, “Don’t stand there and lie to me. Not when—”

“Of course I care,” he bites back, grabbing her by the arm to make sure she looks at him as he speaks, racing mind not coming up with more theories as to why he doesn’t give two shits about any of them. “I vowed to make all of you my people. I keep my promises.” His grip on her arm losens, his brow furrowing as he looks at her. Calmly, he tries to rationalize, “I just don’t think now is the time to start a war when we don’t have any proof.”

_ Proof?  _ “It was Echo,” Clarke declares,mindlessly wiping at her cheek when she tastes salt. It’s all starting to click. It makes sense now. It does. He’ll see it too, she knows he will. “She was here yesterday for no particular reason.”

His eyes soften, his head slightly tilting as he drops his hand from her arm completely. He sounds apologetic.. “She had a message from Roan, their king.” His lips purse, his finger twitch at his side. He can probably tell she’s not buying it, because he explains, reluctantly, “There’s a conflict by the border between Podakru and Boudalan, there’s been a few casualties already, the Coalition is frail—”

“Bullshit,” she snaps, pushing him. He doesn’t budge, just stares at her like he feels sorry for her, and she’s just so. fucking. _ angry _ . “Why would Roan care enough to send a spy to warn you about a small dispute? She shows up here, and miraculously Wells is dead within a day.” She looks him up and down with disgust, shaking her head. “It was payback and you and I both know it.”

She knows he knows it, too. She _ knows _ . But then his face hardens, and he’s stiffly crossing his arms over his chest and it’s over, she can tell. “I can’t act without any proof.” His jaw clenches, as if he’s scraping together the courage to calmly say, “I’m sorry.”

Clarke huffs out a humourless laugh, then looks him directly in the eye, not entirely sure what she hopes to find there. He’s closed himself off again, an empty look in his usually expressive brown eyes. He’s a fucking coward. “No you’re not,” she spits, turning on her heel and storming out.

***

The numbness doesn’t ever really go away. Nobody understands. They want for things to go back to the way they used to be, for her to act normal and be the Clarke they know her to be. But everything is different, and this  _ is _ her new normal. Monty’s tries to talk to her time and time again, Finn keeps cornering her to try and make her smile, Raven tells her to get her shit together. It’s all the same to her. She keeps waiting, for something, anything, Bellamy, but he won’t look at her, won’t be in the same room as her, and it’s more clear than ever that she’s powerless without him. She always has been.

Once Jasper gets her a package of Jobi nuts as both a ‘ _ thank you for taking care of me _ ’ and a ‘ _ cheer up you’re depressing all of us’ _ gift wrapped all into one, she decides that maybe she should start to pretend, for their sake. She’ll try, to feel something. Anything else than—this. She perpetually feels sick, her skin paper-thin, her eyes constantly glassy. There’s this big, gaping hole in the middle of her chest, all the time now, and they just expect her to—move on. To forget that it was her fault, that he...

So she tries. She waits for it to turn dark, and downs a glass of fruity wine on an empty stomach, and goes over to the girl behind the bar, who's been making eyes at her for weeks. They go back to her tent, and after making out for thirty minutes, she breaks away to tell her her name’s Niylah. When Clarke returns the favor, the most she’s said all night, the girl smiles at her, and tells her, “I know.”

The next day, Bellamy finds her, pulling her into an alcove behind one of the cabins. She stares up at him, unconcerned. His eyes burn on her neck, the bruises Niylah left. “What the hell are these?”

Clarke laughs, bitterly. So this,  _ this  _ gets him to talk to her? Not the fact her best friend was murdered.

“What now? I can’t even have fun, ?”

“Fun,” he echoes, skeptically, his fingertips digging into her biceps before pulling away from her entirely. He’s angry. Good. So is she. “You wouldn’t know what fun was if it hit you in the face.” 

She smiles, slowly, meanly. “Niylah thought I was fun.”

His eyes search her face, lingering on the bags beneath her eyes, the cracks in her lips, the way her hair’s frizzled around her head. His mouth opens, and then it closes as he swallows. Quietly, he claims, like he has any right to, like he has any idea what she’s going through, “This won’t make you feel better.”

Clarke stares at him, pain cracking her chest wide open as she remembers. She doesn’t  _ want _ to remember. And being with Niylah, even for just a moment, it made her forget. Despite everything, tears prick at her eyes, but she swallows them down. Bitingly, she replies, “You don’t know me.” 

“I guess I don’t,” Bellamy retorts, his brow furrowing as he looks at her in disbelief. She’s not sure what he wants her to say, and she doesn’t get long enough to analyze the look on his face before he scoffs, shaking his head. “You do whatever the hell you want, Clarke.” 

In the morning, she wakes up with scratches down her back. During lunch, she asks him about it. dropping the tray of food she won’t touch on the table he’s sitting at, sinking down on the bench across from him. “Wild night?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he scoffs, irritated, not even looking up from his book. 

That tactic’s not going to work today, then. She watches him tear off a piece of bread with one hand, stuffing it in his mouth. Once he’s done chewing, she presses, “I noticed you gave Monty a job.” Helping out one of the farmers. The first of them to actually get a permanent assignment and not just daily chores nobody else wants to take care of.

“Like I said, once they’re ready I’ll let them take on a suitable position in camp,” Bellamy informs her, monotonously, flipping the page of his book.

She purses her lips, leaning back from the table. “You don’t think I’m ready?” 

His brown eyes flick up briefly to give her an unimpressed look. “Weren’t you yelling at me about ‘your people’ a few days ago?” 

“What?” Clarke huffs, indignant, gritting her teeth together. Who the hell does he think he is? “It's some kind of test, then? I don't get to be a healer until I prove I think of anyone as my people?”

He finally puts the book down, marking the spot. His eyes reluctantly and slowly rise to meet hers. He doesn’t sound distrustful, or upset, just detached as he explains, “I need it not to make a difference if it’s Jasper on that table or Lincoln.” 

Her blue eyes narrow, actually halfway offended now. “You know it wouldn't.” 

“Do I?” Bellamy sneers, finally a real expression on his face, finally a real emotion in his voice. His chest heaves with labored breaths. “I don't know you after all, do I?”

“Go float yourself,” she bites, pushing away her tray as she gets up, knowing she’s being irrational. She finds it hard to care about anything these days, though.

That night, she tries Niylah again, but she only opens the flap of her tent enough to send her an apologetic look. Clarke still wakes up with a plethora of purple bruises down her collarbone and chest, and it’s not hard to figure out the reason why when she knocks on his cabin door. There’s a flash of two girls before he closes it behind him, still pulling his shirt over his head. “What is it?” He grumbles, squinting at her through sleep-lidded eyes as he casually leans back against the door.

“What did you tell Niylah?” She demands, arms crossed over her chest. She’s not leaving before she gets an answer. The woman looked spooked and as far as she’s concerned, he doesn’t own her.

He scowls, annoyed, scrubbing a hand over his face before saying, “I didn’t tell her anything” 

“Right,” she agrees, bitterly. “That’s why she refused to even look at me.” 

Bellamy chuckles, as if he’s actually amused, even though he’s glaring at her, fists balling up at his sides as he kicks off the door. “I warned everyone not to touch you. She broke the rules. I simply reminded her of the consequences.” 

Hypocrite.

“So what?” She clarifies, livid, glaring right back up at him. Clarke doesn’t care who hears, doesn’t care what he thinks about her mental stability or her life choices, just wants to hurt him like she’s hurting. He took the only thing from her that still made her feel something. He doesn’t get to do that. “You get to fuck whoever you want and I have to look at the marks they leave? Why are you punishing me?” 

“I'm not punishing you, Clarke,” he snaps, his head slanting to the side as frowns at her. He curses, low, under his breath, then, “I'm  _ protecting _ you.” She opens her mouth, ready to protest, but he beats her to it, eyebrows raising. “Do you know Niylah sells secrets for a living?” His dark eyes bore into hers, her heart dropping to her stomach as she swallows tightly. “It works both ways. My people can't be yours until you trust them, and you can't be my people’s until they trust you.” 

“Whatever,” she bites, although most of the heat sticks in the back of her throat. Her hand slides into her hair, gripping tightly for a second before dropping it back down to scrub at her face. She’s so fucking tired.

“Clarke,” he starts, soft but insistent. His eyes burning into her face until she finally looks up at him, and when she does it nearly breaks her. The sincerity, the empathy and sorrow, right there. It’s too much. “Take it from me, destroying yourself because of the guilt you feel isn’t going to help anyone.” Tentatively, his fingers reach up to cover the curve of her shoulder. “It isn’t what he would want for you.”

She jerks her arm away from him, grasping on to that little shred of anger she still has left, anything to not let in his words, anything to not take in what they  _ mean _ , grasping on tight. Tears sting at the back of her eyes but she refuses, she refuses, she refuses. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” Bellamy insists, wistful, swallowing tightly. 

Clarke closes her mouth, just staring at him in silence.

“Her name was Gina. She—” He smiles a little, sad, taking in a rough breath as he presses his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes briefly, wiping away the moisture that’s quickly gathered there. “She was real, you know?”

Her mouth feels dry, so she scrapes her throat, shoulders deflating as she realizes exactly what kind of inconsiderate selfish asshole she’s been. “What happened?”

“The Mountain.” He shrugs, casual, scratching at his jaw mindlessly as his eyes glaze over with tears again, quickly blinking them away as he turns his head to the side, away from her. “I, uhh, I blamed myself for a really long time. I hurt a lot of people, including myself.”

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, letting out a shaky breath as she takes a chance. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to pretend everything’s okay. That things are normal. Everyone expects me to be someone I can’t be.”

“Things don’t go back to normal. They never will,” he rationalizes, honestly, the dull insistent throbbing in the middle of her chest spreading everywhere as she realizes what she’s been running from. Everything hurts, all at once, making it hard to breathe, paralyzing her right on the spot. “And that’s a  _ good _ thing.” He grins a mournful grin, almost teasing. “It shows how much he meant to you. The only thing keeping him alive now is the people who remember him.” The throbbing turns into a sharp sting as she thinks of Wells, of all the things he wanted for them, for her, and then she breathes through it. She breathes through it, and it’s not okay, but it’s better. More clear now. “Don’t let grief, or guilt, or anger try and take that away from him, okay?”

Clarke realizes she’s crying, and before she knows it she’s reaching out for him, banding her arms around his neck. He hugs her back, one hand pressing into her lower back as he tugs her closer, the other buried in the hair at the back of her skull. She whimpers softly, melting into him for one peaceful moment before reality comes back slamming it and she realizes what she is doing.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, into his neck, quickly pulling away. Her eyes flick down to the wet spot on his t-shirt, and then back up to his face, apologetically, roughly wiping at her cheeks. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bellamy promises with a genuine smile, too soft to be fake, telling her he means it, in more ways than one. 

She sniffs, dragging the palm of her hand over the next fresh batch of silent tears that have rolled down her cheeks since two seconds ago. She feels like an exposed nerve, but there’s this weight too, lifted right off her shoulders, and it’s, it’s freeing. “Just—maybe, tell your girls to tone the lovebites down a little okay?”

He grins with a huff of laughter, thumbing away the tear about to drip from her chin. “I will.”

***

She doesn’t mean to yell at him. Things have been better, they have been. Ever since that conversation they had, he’s really been trying, trying to be more open to her suggestions, and she’s been trying to be more understanding of his limitations. He’s even stopped sleeping around as vocally as he did before, and she’s been more careful about being respectful towards their customs. He’s not a bad person, he really isn’t, she has come to that discovery. He took them in, and his people love him, and he understands her in ways no one else does. It’s just…

She’s a child.

Clarke tells him as much, patching up the cut on Madi’s cheek, but he just blinks at her as if she’s stupid, watching over the two of them. “She’s my second.”

“She’s your second?” She echoes, increduled, sowing in the last stitch with carefully cultivated precision. It’s not too bad, just the byproduct of a sparring session gone wrong. Which would’ve been fine, if she wasn’t, and she repeats, a literal _ child _ . “She’s ten!”

“I’m twelve, actually,” the kid buts in, smiling until she notices that pulls on her wound, to which she flinches and curses out a small, “Ouch.”

Clarke’s eyes soften, running a hand over her dark hair before getting out a plaster to cover the cut so it can heal as cleanly as possible for the first twenty-four hours. “You’re _ twelve _ , you’re supposed to be running around with your friends—”

“I do that,” she insists, cheerily, before the young girl rolls her eyes. “Whenever Bell stops telling me about his boring Gods or makes me explain to him in detail how to build a solar still or how to make a bowline knot like I’m a baby.” 

Bellamy gives her a stern look, but she just sticks out her tongue at him. He grabs at her nose with his thumb and forefinger, although she evades him effortlessly. “Hey, anything could happen at—”

“Any time, yeah, yeah,” Madi raises her eyebrows, unimpressed, swinging her legs off the side of the make-shift exam table. Her eyes dart over to Clarke, inquistory. “Are we done?”

Clarke nods, silently, picking up a cloth to wipe a streak of blood off her left hand. She watches the two of them, curiously, as Madi hops off the table, looking up at Bellamy with a reluctant but surely there attitude. She’s not scared of him, but she respects him, that much is obvious. “Can I go now?”

His jaw tightens, but the girl just stares him down harder, her eyebrows raising, as she informs him matter-of-factly, “You said if I let someone take a look at the cut, I could meet Aden—”

“Fine.” He sighs, wearily, as if hesitant to give in. “You can go, but be careful not to pull your stitches, okay?” Madi is already enthusiastically nodding, no longer listening probably, and he covers her shoulder when she passes him by, fond, watching her over his shoulder as she disappears from Clarke’s medical tent.

Clarke bites the inside of her cheek, pensively. When his eyes flick back over to her, she wipes her hands on the back of her pants and then offers, “She’s a tough girl.”

“She is,” he relents, distracted, then suddenly clears his throat. “Tomorrow.” She tilts her head, questioningly, and he elaborates, as if it’s obvious, “Nyko will start to teach you the ropes. Be there at seven.”

She huffs. “Really?”

“Really.” He smiles, amused, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, thumb lingering over her cheekbone as if it’s no big deal. As if her heart’s not stuttering in the middle of her chest.

Her eyes dip down to his hand, and then back up to him as she forces away the warm feeling in her chest. She shouldn’t push it, but she’s meaning to ask him for a while, and it’s starting to feel like the right moment is never going to come. Her teeth drag over her top lip, and then she sighs, her forehead creasing, knowing this will probably just start a fight. “Can we finally talk about it now?”

He watches her, careful, lowering his hand. “About what?” 

Clarke swallows thickly, eyes fixated on him, every little move he makes — from the flutter of his eyelashes to movement of his chest as he breathes. “The fact we’re soulmates?” 

His entire body stiffens, his face hardening as all warmth disappears from his eyes. “No.”

She opens her mouth, ready to ask why on earth they can’t just have a single fucking conversation about it, what he is so afraid of, but then he’s already turning away, stalking towards the flap at the entrance of the tent and she knows it’s useless.

Clarke knows she probably has to talk to him again, swallow her pride and dignity, apologize for prying. Otherwise it’ll just be another three weeks of cold shoulders, because he  _ is _ that dramatic when it comes to holding grudges, and she’d kind of miss him. It’s better to get it over with, compromise. 

Yet, when she tries to go to his cabin, Bryan stops her. Next, she tries to corner him at dinner, but Harper and Brell block her path before she can even get near him. Same thing at breakfast, and lunch, and she’s not even allowed to come near the armory as long as he’s occupying it because Miller ‘ _ can and will use physical force _ ’. It’s ridiculous. He’s trying to show her he’s still the one in charge, that he’s making the decisions, calling the shots.

Most of all, it’s childish, she thinks. It’s fucking childish, and immature, and he doesn’t know her well enough if he doesn’t realize two can play that game. 

So she laughs at Finn’s unfunny jokes for an evening, lets him bring her back to the tent he used to share with Raven, lets him kiss her, and leave bruises on her hips as he fucks her, and pretends to like it when he does ‘ _ this _ ’ or  _ ‘that, baby _ ’. Her body has always been the only way to gain his attention, and she  _ needs _ a reaction out of him. 

Except, the first time doesn’t work. So she tries again, and again. She knows it makes her a horrible person. Finn likes her, has liked her since the start, that she picked him because he’s easy. and she’s just using him. For what? She knows it’s not to make Bellamy jealous, because that’s not it. She doesn’t give a fuck if he’s jealous, still stands by the fact she’s not his property despite whatever bond they took on, but if it angers him to the point he might be willing to finally have a real conversation about whatever it is he’s hiding from her, then maybe it’s worth it. 

It’s not until Finn tries to hold her hand during dinner that she can feel Bellamy’s seething eyes on her from across the field. She makes up an excuse to go back to her tent, and he follows her, like she knew he would.

“What are you doing with him?” He barks, making her shoulders stiffen at his audacity. She doesn’t stop walking, not even when he pulls on her arm. She doesn’t even really know where she’s going anymore, just knows it’s away from him, from the village, into the woods. “I’m talking to you.”

Clarke scoffs, bitter. “Oh,  _ now _ you want to talk?” 

She can hear him come to a halt behind her, his dark voice a gruff rumble as he presses, “He’s not good enough for you.” 

This finally makes her swivel around on her heels, digging a finger into his chest as soon as she marches up to him. She’s so pissed off she’s seeing red. “ _ You _ don’t get a say.”

Bellamy grits his teeth together, an almost pained look in his eyes. “ _ He  _ doesn’t deserve you.” 

She wants to laugh, hell, maybe she does. “And you do?” 

He reels back, shaking his head as his tongue comes out to wet his lips. There’s a —  _ panicked _ look in his brown eyes. “It’s not like that.” 

She’s done. Done playing stupid, and pretending none of this means anything. Like there is nothing here. There is, and they both know it, they’re both too stubborn to admit it. It’s frightening, and paralyzing, and the more he insists it’s all in her head, the more the anger consumes her. Clarke’s eyes narrow, her brows furrowing together, her breaths coming in hard and fast. “Then what is this? You don’t speak to me for days, not even when I practically  _ beg  _ you, but I fuck one random guy and you’re chasing after me, acting all territorial.”

Bellamy curses under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before he stammers, “You’re my—” He starts, fuming, then grits his teeth, cutting himself off. Coward.

“What? _ Soulmate?” _ She spits, shaking her head at him while keeping his gaze the entire time. Hatred seeps from every word she utters, “I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean considering you won’t even talk to me about it.” 

“We shouldn’t talk about it,” he barks, just as pissed off, frustrated she can’t just simple accept that’s the way things are. Maybe before she got here. “If the wrong person finds out—”

“Yeah,” she huffs, letting out a bitter chuckle. “They could use me against you, right? That’s what you’re so worried about, isn’t it?” She doesn’t know what kind of buttons she’s pressing as she talks, but she’s just trying to get to as many of them as possible. “If someone kills me, you’ll die too, right? You’re a selfish ass.”

His jaw clenches tightly, but still there is nothing else. No excuses, or defenses. 

Clarke shoves him with both hands, trying to get a reaction, even if she should know better by now. Her voice grows louder with each words she says, each little bad thought she’s ever had about him, “I can’t fuck anyone else, because I’m your propety and it would be a bad look for you if someone found out you let anyone else touch what yours.” She pushes him, again. And again. “But you won’t look at me either. You won’t even touch me—”

He grabs her by the arms, holding her tightly in place as he takes on a wounded expression. “You think I don’t hate this?” Bellamy starts, fuming, his voice rough. “Seeing you with him? How many times I’ve had to hold myself back from knocking one of his lungs loose for just looking at you.” He takes in her shocked expression, the white indents underneath his fingertips and takes a step away from her, roughly running a hand through his hair. He looks off to the side, hands on his hips, then back at her, a muscle in his jaw flexing painfully before he rasps, “I wake up angry, and breathless, because the moment I open my eyes I know exactly what parts of you he’s touched. And it’s killing me.”

None of it makes any sense. If he felt that way, if he truly feels that way, why are they having this conversation. Panic crawls up her throat, makes it hard to swallow. All these things he’s saying, they’re making her face a part of her, a truth, she’s been trying so hard to run away from. Desperate, she pries, “Then why—”

“Because it’s not you,” Bellamy admits, defeated, with a contrite, humourless closed-lipped smile that lasts for all the time it takes her to blink. “And it’s not me.” He throws up a hand, letting out a frustrated huff. “It’s the fucking soulmate connection. If it wasn’t for that, you wouldn’t give two shits about me.”

She swallows past the lump in her throat, searching his eyes with hers, frantic. She doesn’t believe in faith, and destiny, and soulmates. At least, she didn’t. Not before she was ripped from the sky and thrown into a life full of nonsensical ways. She’s not even sure she does now. She believes in what’s real, what she can touch, or explain. Science, and math, and facts. But he’s standing here, right in front of her, and she — she  _ cares _ about him. “I don’t believe that.”

“Don’t you?” He challenges her, roughly, and Clarke can’t look him in the eye and lie, so she says nothing. He takes a step back from her, giving her one last look that’s twisted with quiet agony, and then he’s gone. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment? 🥺👉👈

**Author's Note:**

> im [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) and also here [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru)


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